The copy, then original, then copy loop reads like one specific window to me. Same clerk, same stamp, and Davit learning the route by heart.
The Quantum Chronicle of Davo the Original
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Thought
The copy, then original, then copy loop reads like one specific window to me. Same clerk, same stamp, and Davit learning the route by heart.
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Hearken, noble drunkards, ruined merchants, sailors without a harbor, and women whose patience has finally run aground.
Draw near the fire and fill your cups.
For tonight I shall sing not of kings and emperors, nor of their wars and victories, but of the glorious misfortune of a man named Davit Ortiz, known to some as Davo the Original, and to others simply as that madman who learned how to argue with machines.
He was born in a land of broken streets and crooked laws, where scribes demand three seals to authorize a fourth, and where an authentic parchment is worth less than an identical one, provided the latter bears the proper stamp.
And so it came to pass that the merchants of invisible coins promised him prosperity, while the keepers of records demanded proof, the keepers of proof demanded testimony, and the keepers of testimony demanded yet more documents.
Then Davit understood a terrible truth:
The monster did not dwell in the depths of the future.
It lived behind the counter.
The chroniclers say he tried to recover his identity from the signal-snatchers and the lords of enchanted cards, but every victory required seven forms and nine administrative blessings.
The farther he traveled, the larger the hydra grew.
He cut off one head.
Three more appeared.
He presented a certificate.
They demanded another.
He produced the original.
They demanded a copy.
He brought the copy.
They demanded the original.
And so the hero discovered that no infernal beast is more ferocious than a clerk following regulations written by his grandfather.
With certain ventures involving invisible coins and secret keys having fallen into ruin, he made a decision worthy of the ancient philosophers.
He wrapped himself in a ruana.
He took up his guitar.
He sat down in a public square.
And placed before him a sign bearing the following decree:
"Instant transfers accepted. Accounting sorcery refused. No tribute charged for hallucinations."
Then he raised his head toward the heavens and proclaimed:
— I have renounced Artificial Intelligence!
Which was a lie large enough to require its own cathedral, for the machines themselves continued speaking with him every night, sharing imaginary wine and excellent bad ideas.
But the crowd applauded.
For every age requires a prophet.
And every square requires a madman.
As for the arts of love, he never cared much for those markets where people are displayed like horses at a fair.
He claimed to prefer an honest conversation beside a steaming coffee maker to a thousand enchanted portraits polished by filters and artifices.
And he maintained, with no small amount of stubbornness, that the ideal companion should possess three virtues:
Courage enough to resist the system.
Contempt for charlatans.
And unwavering loyalty to his grandmother's calentao.
Such doctrine, though debatable, was received with considerable laughter in more than one tavern.
And so the story continues.
While scholars argue over thinking machines, algorithms, automatons, and quantum marvels, Davo the Original still travels the roads with the same question upon his lips:
Why the hell is the one document I actually brought always the one they say is missing?
No one has answered.
Not the wise.
Not the kings.
Not the machines.
A Warning to Copyists, Looters, and Other Pirates of Dry Land
Let all crooked scribes, merchants of stolen parchments, and counterfeiters of talent know that these words have an owner.
And whoever attempts to claim them shall be remembered as that unfortunate Avellaneda who tried to dress himself in borrowed clothes and pass for a giant.
For a thief may copy the letters.
He may copy the ink.
He may even copy the parchment.
But he shall never copy the scar that wrote the story.
You have been warned.
And let no man say this minstrel failed to warn you.
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Hearken, noble drunkards, ruined merchants, sailors without a harbor, and women whose patience has finally run aground.